No one wants witchers. Usually that would get a speech from Jaskier, a long and scolding string of fancy words that would remind Geralt witchers do deserve better and someone out there does want him.
Not today. Jaskier is exhausted, barely able to deal with the punches thrown at his own self-esteem to take care of Geralt's on top of that. But Jaskier is still Jaskier, a bard that doesn't allow words to fly by without consequence, doesn't allow questions about himself to go unanswered.
"How could you allow me to follow you if I was annoying you and spoiling your blessed silence?"
It's not something anywhere close to what witchers go through, nowhere close to be looked down upon and discriminated by society. He knows that. But again, he's feeling tired and petty, he just wants to make a very simple point: the good times surpass the bad, and nobody is perfect. That's how human interaction works.
Jaskier's breathing stops for a moment when he hears that question, the voice so small that it claws at Jaskier's instincts to run and take care of Geralt when he feels like that, instincts that were born when he was 18 and have only grown since then, becoming part of the man he's today. His hands close in tight fists, nails digging into skin as he reminds himself not to hope again, because he had been doing that since the night of his rescue and it's only brought this mess of an argument.
And yet-- I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting.
"Only if you swear--" His voice breaks, and he swallows another sob, takes a deep breath before trying again, before raising blue eyes once more in a final effort. "Because you HAVE to swear, Geralt, on your swords or on Roach or anything, but you got to promise me that you don't want this because you don't know how to deal with your guilt. Promise me you don't want this only to make me feel better after the dragon hunt, and the Nilgaardian soldiers, and--" He raises a hand to indicate the air between them. "--this. Promise me you want this for yourself, because you understand you're allowed to want things, because you want to be happy, because this is what I truly mean to you. I don't need poetry or epic confessions, only honesty. If you do--"
Chin raised high, he takes a step forward, offering himself for more gestures and words if they come. But only one step, no more, because he's spent two decades reaching out, and it's Geralt's turn to do the same. To give the first step into something more - the true step, and not a song.
"--then yes. I'd love nothing else than for you to want this."
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Not today. Jaskier is exhausted, barely able to deal with the punches thrown at his own self-esteem to take care of Geralt's on top of that. But Jaskier is still Jaskier, a bard that doesn't allow words to fly by without consequence, doesn't allow questions about himself to go unanswered.
"How could you allow me to follow you if I was annoying you and spoiling your blessed silence?"
It's not something anywhere close to what witchers go through, nowhere close to be looked down upon and discriminated by society. He knows that. But again, he's feeling tired and petty, he just wants to make a very simple point: the good times surpass the bad, and nobody is perfect. That's how human interaction works.
Jaskier's breathing stops for a moment when he hears that question, the voice so small that it claws at Jaskier's instincts to run and take care of Geralt when he feels like that, instincts that were born when he was 18 and have only grown since then, becoming part of the man he's today. His hands close in tight fists, nails digging into skin as he reminds himself not to hope again, because he had been doing that since the night of his rescue and it's only brought this mess of an argument.
And yet-- I'm weak, my love, and I'm wanting.
"Only if you swear--" His voice breaks, and he swallows another sob, takes a deep breath before trying again, before raising blue eyes once more in a final effort. "Because you HAVE to swear, Geralt, on your swords or on Roach or anything, but you got to promise me that you don't want this because you don't know how to deal with your guilt. Promise me you don't want this only to make me feel better after the dragon hunt, and the Nilgaardian soldiers, and--" He raises a hand to indicate the air between them. "--this. Promise me you want this for yourself, because you understand you're allowed to want things, because you want to be happy, because this is what I truly mean to you. I don't need poetry or epic confessions, only honesty. If you do--"
Chin raised high, he takes a step forward, offering himself for more gestures and words if they come. But only one step, no more, because he's spent two decades reaching out, and it's Geralt's turn to do the same. To give the first step into something more - the true step, and not a song.
"--then yes. I'd love nothing else than for you to want this."